Rebirth of the Janissaries Snakepit interlude 1
by Dark Schtroumpf
Summary: First in a series of interludes in the Snakepit Draka-Stargate crossover universe. Draka veterans are called to train the new generation of Tollan soldiers.
1. Chapter 1

_This is the first in a series of interlude stories/vignettes taking place between Snakepit and its sequel, Stars of Iron. _

**Rebirth of the Janissaries**

**The Tollan Curia**

**Blue Conference Room **

It was often said that the more participants in a meeting in the Imperial administration, the less weight the discussion had. Savvy commentators of Tollan politics knew the reverse rule : the really important decisions were always taken by a few characters in quiet and discreet meetings, safely tucked in the heart of the Curia building where no prying ear could listen and no loudspoken fool could interrupt.

Blue conference room didn't look like much from inside. Pale blue walls (hence its name), a display-glass surface with room for eight seats around its octogonal perimeter, a handful neutral still picture-frames, and a standard issue holodisplay stuck on the ceiling above, a silver dish contraption studded with photonic windows. It was inactive, as was the display surface. The three men sitting there didn't need any visual input for what they were discussing.

They knew each other well. It was hardly the first time they met in that way, after all.

All three were well into mature age and heir seniority showed itself in greying or white-laced hair, lines set on faces that were used to long frowns of concentration, and attentive if subtly relaxed postures, as if their inherent seriousness was tempered by self-confidence borne from decades of experience.

All wore sober clothing as befitted such senior leaders and movers, in light shades of grey. The only peculiarity was a low-key one, only apparent because of the lack of any other. One of the men was speaking softly but articulately, on his breast glinted the platinium three-pointed star of a Tollan Navy Senior High Fleet Commander, the highest rank in the Imperial armed forces, and it belonged to the highest-ranked of them all. Effectively, SHFCdr Doranis was the head of the Navy, answering to the Curia only, and he had been holding this rank since the opening battles of the Third Goa'uld War (mere skirmishes didn't count). A war that closed a long period of effortless Tollan supremacy, and whose outcome would have been much, much worse if the Empire hadn't found an unexpected ally to put a stop on Tanith's string of victories.

He knew better than anyone how complacence had nearly doomed them all. And he was determined to use the breathing space to ensure such a thing would never happen again on his watch.

"The Curia already agreed on the new military construction plan, High Commander. Therefore, I do wonder at the reason why you requested this meeting ?"

Doranis only smiled slyly at the question raised without preamble. Councilor Damoros was the Navy's best supporter in the Curia, and held considerable sway in Tollan affairs as well. And he usually went straight to the point when cajoling his opposite numbers wasn't needed. The last man remained silent. Another member of the Curia, he was junior to the game, but his past career and connections in the Diplomatic Service made him a useful ally. And he was sensible as far as military matters went, contradicting the common saw that diplomats and soldiers didn't go along.

"Indeed, Councilors. The whole package went through the vote without a hitch, and I must say I didn't expect anything else. Even Councilor Lomarr supported it without reservation. Expanding fleet numbers, bigger and more powerful weapons, hyperdrive research, it's all funded for the next ten years at the minimum. The holes in our order of battle should be plugged earlier… but we'll be stuck without a significant force projection capability for three years, at least, until the new squadrons start coming online. We need to build the hulls and train the crews, and we lost all too many experienced personnel in the war."

The two councilors nodded. This was nothing they didn't already know. The whole Navy was to be rebuilt and upgraded to bridge the gap in firepower with Goa'uld Ha'taks. Phase-shifting was yet another casualty of the war, it followed. For centuries it had remained the Tollan ace in the hole, a triumph of finesse over brute force. That era was over. Until the scientists could come up with something better (which nobody expected them to, since phase-shifting itself was still a barely-understood, reverse-engineered technology originally found in the ancient-beyond-belief artefacts whose discovery had kick-started Tollan scientific progress centuries ago) then brute force would have to do.

Fortunately, the indigenous shipborne naquadah-enhanced fusion generators could provide enough energy to rival a Ha'tak's armament, to say nothing of the planet-bound ZPF energy plants. Using their output to power a planetary shield was altogether not the best use, but they could very adequately power planetary defense batteries of oversized ion cannons. Those were already out of the drawing boards - in effect, they _were_ oversized versions of the standard Tollan heavy gun, albeit stripped of their phase-shifting component to leave only pure, raw hitting power. Utterly unsubtle, utterly inelegant, and (hopefully) utterly overkill, since their projected firepower surpassed the shield strength of Tanith's captured motherships.

It should become a one shot one kill weapon again, albeit limited to planetary defense. There were significant theoretical barriers against miniaturizing the Zero Point Field technology, as far as the Tollan scientific establishment knew. And while the completed Super Ion Cannons would devastate a attacking squadron in orbit, they could be made ineffective by ships dropping out of FTL right over the surface. A tactic which, suicidal as it first appeared, had been used successfully by Tanith's fleet.

This was the reason behind another project, this one utterly black, so black it didn't even have a name. Of the Imperial administration, only the two Councilors sitting in the room knew about it, for they had arranged funding and support through (hopefully) untraceable and covert ways. And Doranis had done his best to prevent anyone from remarking that the Empire's best hyperphysicists had been physically relocated in a remote and very secure research facility. This wasn't expected to yield practical results before years, again, but if the researchers' initial intuitions were confirmed, the Tollan Navy wouldn't have to worry about enemies hypering out right on top of the planets it was tasked with defending.

The High Commander put the glass of water down and resumed. None of the other two had said a word to interrupt him yet.

"What I'm here to talk about might be viewed as accessory compared to fleet building ad superweapons, but I think that focusing entirely on big iron would hide an important factor." He paused for effect, took a theatrical breath.

"The human factor."

Damoros blinked. "I'm not sure what you're alluding to… we are already committed to training more Navy crews, aren't we ?"

"Allow me to explain, Councilor. It's not about training technically competent men and women… it is about training warriors."

"I see."

Doranis bent forward, staring intently at his interlocutors. His tone became more focused, more intense, expressing his intimate conviction across.

"When our troops found out that the very weapon they relied upon the most had lost any effectiveness against Tanith's forces, they were caught entirely unaware. Collective panic - we were unable to adapt and overcome, robbed of our single technological advantage. What did the Drakas show us, on the other hand ? They came in with even less experience against the Goa'uld and the Kull Warriors especially. Did they panic ?"

He shook his head negatively.

"No. They took losses, but the didn't panic. They didn't let fear shackle them. And they slaughtered both Jaffa legions and Kull Warriors all by themselves, using what we'd call inferior technology."

"I think I understand what you're trying to tell us, High Commander. We should emulate them. Is this it ?"

"Absolutely ! They demonstrated superior fighting spirit and skill. Something we have lost track of as we relied more and more on technological marvels to fight for us !" The high commander was now talking animatedly. "We need to return to that basic tenet of warfare : _the mind of a soldier is his most effective weapon !_"

"I can share your sentiment, High Commander. But how exactly do you intend to accomplish this most worthy goal ?" Assuredly, Damoros thought, the man already had an idea about it.

And it showed in the huge grin that answered them.

"Well, Councilors, the Ground Force will be expanding and recruiting and those soldiers on the ground are those who need that fighting spirit most. Who best could help us turn inoffensive civilians into professional killers ?"

"The Drakas, I take it. But as you know, they train from childhood into martial arts. Even those who weren't genetically augmented for that. I doubt the average young Tollan adult could match this level of commitment."

"Yes, yes" Doranis waved the objection away "but they don't need to reach the same level of physical performance. Nevertheless, I'm certain the Drakas could provide entirely valuable expertise, at least to train the first new classes of what should become a vastly expanded Tollan Army. And I did some preliminary inquiries already - I think they would accept."

Several days later, Eric von Shrakenberg had to muster all his self-discipline not to smirk evilly in the direction of the nearly-red Security Directorate Strategos, whose face he couldn't help mentally overlay with a certain Governor Gayner, and instead smiled suavely.

"Why, Strategos, of course I'm going to accede to the Tollans' request." His tone became even more mellow, if possible. "Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, and if they're willing to bleed for us, why not let them ?"

_Even better if the very idea gives your kind an ulcer_, he didn't say out loud.

**Nautona, Tollan Empire**

**Joint Military Enclave**

**Three months later**

Whatever second thoughts Cenor could have, now was too late. The tall wrought iron gates had closed behind, sealing the great parade field. White gravel crunched under his steps, and his curious, if mildly apprehensive gaze took in the rest of the surroundings. The Enclave was deceptively low-key, or what he was able to see. Neat lawn borders, gravel paths, white-painted wooden barracks - wooden ? How quaint ! There was a row of them along one side of the square parade ground, their length perpendicular to the border, like long rectangular boxes on low stilts, just high enough for a man to crawl under, with a short flight of steps leading to the manually-operated door. Across the grounds were another cluster of low-slung buildings, and the most noteworthy detail was the pair of banners hanging on twin poles, one of them bearing the familiar crest of the Empire, the other a blood-red, stylized winged beast that was vaguely reptilian and fierce-looking. The dragon symbol of the Domination, one the young man knew from the recruitment posters gracing the streets of his home city. In glorious vivid colors, it showed a soldier clad in an artistically-rendered version of Draka infantry armor, an oversized and brutal looking rifle held at the low ready positions, pointing down and sideways across his chest, atop a pile of dead Jaffa bodies, his booted foot crushing a screaming Goa'uld symbiote under the heel. The soldier's face was young, handsome in a virile self-confident way and smiling triumphantly, as if the universe belonged to him.

Underneath the picture, between the crests of the Imperial Tollan Navy and the Domination of the Draka, was a simple question.

"DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES ?"

It was the question Cenor had tortured himself with every single day since the invasion. Did he have what it takes to protect his land and his loved one ?

He could see how Natilis viewed the Draka soldiers in town. She loved him, he knew that. He had felt so inadequate ! Yet, the encounter with the lonely Ann Rayner had somehow made him realize that dwelling on one's misery wasn't the way to spend a life. She had suffered worse and there she was, unbroken despite the tears she had shed. A true soldier, he felt. A hero. And a inspiration for the young couple whose perspectives on life had been shattered.

And Natilis saw that strength everytime her eyes met one of the foreigners. And Cenor saw her look. And there was a message there, of that he was certain, even though she didn't say a word. And he wanted her to look at him and see the same strength, the same bravery, the same projected aura.

He wanted to become a warrior like those men. And there was the opportunity. So he took it despite any exhortation to the contrary, from some of his friends who didn't see the point in soulless violence. Of course, they hadn't been on Nautona when the Jaffas came.

And he'd walked into the recruitment office, where a cheering Ground Force NCO slapped him on the back and poured him a strong shot of brandy after he'd signed, physically and electronically, his request for enlistment. He was a bit dazed after that. And two hours later, an electronic priority-flagged message caught up with him, confirming his preliminary inductment and setting the time and day for him to start training. A short addendum warned that failure to perform was see him chucked back to civilian life with no ill effect. Save to his self-esteem, he gathered. And Natilis'. Who had, to his relief, taken the news well enough - she'd made that clear during the night. Somehow, she'd shown some of the flame he thought extinguished by the captivity and the rapes. This alone was reason enough to hold no regret, he reflected again as he met the rest of the trainees milling without direction in a corner of the parade square.

There were a couple familiar faces scattered in the crowd, and he went to them for the sake of familiarity in unfamiliar terrain. Boys his age, trying to hide their nervousness too, and they laughed together when he pointed that. There was idle chat as more draftees arrived under the mid-afternoon sun. And he was beginning to wonder at the apparent absence of supervision when a door at the other side opened, on the very construction flanked by the flagpoles. There was a plaque, but he was too far to read. Nevertheless, he reasoned that it probably was some kind of commander's office.

A man strode out, then another, and another. All three wore uniforms. Only one was Tollan silver and grey. The remaining two wore variations of the same, a tan-colored ensemble of pants and matching hip-length jacket, both a compromise of practical looseness and soldierly sternness. Ironed-out cargo-pockets figured in abundance, four visible on the jacket and two on the thighs. A brown leather belt surrounded their waist, held by a shiny brass buckle, and each wore a handgun in a prominent matching leather holster. One of them, the first to exit the building, also carried a large holstered blade on the other hip.

As they came closer, Cenor spotted additional details. The first soldier was no youngling. His lined and tanned face and grey-streaked chestnut hair showed that. He also wore silver insignias while the second one wore gold ones, but the multicolored ribbons on his chest were just as numerous and Cenor knew those to represent battles and war feats. He had no idea of their precise significance, but by the number of them he was staring at two very experienced warriors.

By then, everyone else had stopped moving and chatting and was staring as well, and the little crowd morphed into a rough line as its components moved forward to look at the newcomers.

The uniformed trio stopped four armspans from the first aspiring soldier. Standing in a vanguard formation, the Tollan one in front, they gazed at the waiting men levelly, the Drakas' faces inscrutable as they did so.

"Greetings !" the leader addressed them at last, in a clear, strong voice which nonetheless held, Cenor was sure of it, a little trepidation.

"I am Ground Commander Ochomos, and I'm here to greet you in the name of the Imperial Armed Forces. As you probably know, this facility is under joint Draka and Tollan jurisdiction, and I share its command with my Draka counterpart" he made a formal pointing gesture with his flat hand, and the other officer nodded minutely, eyes never leaving their clinical scan of the new draftees "Cohortarch Olufsen. His role will be more executive than mine. I am for the most part dealing with the myriad administrative duties that such a facility entails." Also he didn't say, but he would be off-base most of the time. That Draka bastard was frightening, even when just sitting behind an office. "And" he pointed the other way "Decurion Hartmann will be tasked with instructing you in basic military discipline and skills." _And good fucking luck._

Ochomos stared intently at the young faces in front of him. "You are Tollan, every single one of you, and I expect you to make us proud. It will be tough, and maybe not all of you will survive to graduate, but I am fully confident that in time, you will become a force to make the Goa'uld fear us again !"

He nodded and took a step back at the end of his welcome speech, prompting the Cohortarch to step forward and scan the group from one end to the other again.

"Greetings" his voice was slightly raspy, but loud and clear, and heavily accented. "I've served the Domination for twenty years, leading men like you in combat. Heavy, mudslugging combat, fighting in artillery-torn fields and burning cities. I saw rivers of blood run under my feet. I killed men with my bare hands and I listened to the wail of their women." Maybe this was overdoing it, he mused. But the lads were listening intently. "The Goa'uld and their Jaffa dogs raped your land and your girlfriends, maybe they raped you too. And you want to make them pay. That's good. But right now the lot of you couldn't harm one of those Jaffas even if he was tied to a tree !"

There was a few murmurs at that. Olufsen caught one of the boys and strode in front of him. He locked eyes. A mere second later the other one averted his gaze.

"So. You have something to object ?"

"Sir, I took fighting classes at school. I can defend myself !"

"Really ? Could you defend yourself if I attacked you ?"

"Err…"

"Or maybe you could try to attack me ?" The Cohortarch smiled sweetly. Behind him, Decurion Hartmann remained stone-faced, but his eyes twinkled maliciously. Commander Omochos merely watched, expecting what would follow.

The young civilian had hesitation painted on his features. But wisdom asserted itself.

"I'd rather not Sir. I suspect I wouldn't accomplish anything save hurting myself" he exhaled.

Olufsen licked his lip and his eyes narrowed for a second. Then a grin crossed his face and he slapped the draftee's shoulder amicably.

"Good lad ! At least you have a modicum of sense, I see. This might help you in the future." He stepped back and addressed the group as a whole. "I won't say I'm happy to be pulled out of retirement for your sake" actually, he was. At over sixty, he was unlikely to take part in front-line combat, and his old Janissary command had been disbanded years ago. And being here beat staying on cold, shortage-ridden Earth. His own children were adults, and he didn't have a plantation to stay attached to. Not even a wife anymore, thanks to a Yank hypersonic. The Damnyanks he hated for good personal reasons. But he'd never come to view his Janissary soldiers as cattle, as some (the bad officers, in his opinion) did. Serfs or not, they were his men, his charges, and more than once he'd gone out of his way to spare their lives. He knew that was probably one of the reasons why he had been recalled by Castle Tarleton to help train the Tollans.

Decurion Hartmann had ended his active career in Janissary Training. A little younger at fifty-three, he had apparently kept the same level of fitness after leaving active duty when the Ghouloons began to form the bulk of the Auxiliaries. And he was probably here because he was happy to have fresh recruits to torment.

The officer pursued. "But I intend to whip you into a fighting force. Or make you die trying." The latter was delivered as a quip, but he was actually dead serious. Say what you wanted about the Tollans, but their leadership had made it clear that a percentage of losses in training was perfectly acceptable, as long as the rest performed to spec in the end.

"And now I'll leave you to Decurion Hartmann, who will lead you through inprocessing. You will receive training fatigues and a standard personal effects pack. Your own stuff you'll leave to the quartermasters. If all goes well, you'll get it back when you leave this camp - whether it's in a uniform, or in a casket."

The Draka NCO took his cue and went forward, smiling amicably, although the friendliness didn't go quite up to his eyes.

"All right, children. Form up and follow me." This was the easiest day. For them.


	2. Chapter 2

_The story continues. Decurion Hartmann's an obvious hommage to Gunnery Sergeant Hartman of movie fame :-)_

Cenor had imagined various (and devious) ways for the Draka instructor to wake up the sleeping barracks. All of them included noise, lots of noise. Klaxons, sirens, screams - in fact, he and a group of fellow recruits had made a pool bet about it, right before they went to bed the previous evening. Beds that were just as crude as the rest of the barracks, by the way. The whole setting felt like something from two centuries ago. Wooden three-storey beds, natural fabric sheets, no adaptive foam. A few recruits had complained to a passing Tollan Army clerk, out of Hartmann's ear, and the answer was "if you pussies wanted comfort you should have joined the Navy". Apparently, the Draka and Tollan personnel had synchronized their tune.

At least the training fatigues and the rest of the personal gear were Imperial issue down to the sonic toothbrush and self-cleaning underwear. But that was apparently the full extent of the set-up's concessions to modernity. And any device connected to the globalnet was prohibited. Not even offline media browsers were allowed. Cenor suspected they wouldn't have time to miss any of those, though.

In the end, nobody won the bet. Right before dawn the dormitory's front door was slammed open, and a flurry of loud, angry animal barks drove the most heavy sleepers awake in a heartbeat, their hindbrains reacting to the sudden predatory noise with a celerity engraved into them since the dawn of _homo sapiens_.

Cenor opened his eyes, thrust his face into the central alleyway and found himself staring at a foaming, canine-filled maw in an elongated muzzle, and eyes that looked at him as if he was an early morning snack. The quadrupedal beast was easily half as tall as a man, lean and mean and straining half-erect at its leash, obviously wanting nothing more than to jerk free and rampage inside the confined quarters. And it was barking and woofing, filling the space with a raucous, hungry cacophony, soon augmented by frenetic yells and cries by the dumbstruck and shaken young Tollans. The din rose to a crescendo in the half-gloom, until the electric lighting blazed dry and crude and Decurion Hartmann's powerful voice bellowed it all to a halt.

"CESAR ! QUIET ! AND YOU MONKEYS SHUT UP AND FALL IN, _**RIGHT FUCKING NOW !**_"

The beast fell silent, clearly reminded who was the boss, and the room's occupants left their beds in hasty if uncoordinated fashion to stand in line all along the passage between the rows of bunks. Most were blinking furiously to try and clear the grit still in their eyes, and the closest to the door were very obviously trying to keep as much distance as they could between their selves and the quieter, but still hungry and mean-looking animal and its owner. It really didn't help that the creature was still showing bared rows of flesh-tearing teeth, and looking at the arrayed humans as if they were so much meat.

Seconds later, the man behind the leash smirked, apparently satisfied by the success of his introduction. A moment of utter silence followed, only broken by the wet sound of Cesar licking its chops.

"And now, ladies, allow me to introduce my loyal assistant" Hartmann's chin pointed at the black creature at the end of the leash. "This is Cesar. Cesar is a sixty kilo Dobermann. I believe you people know what a dog is, technically, but Cesar would eat your Tollan-bred poodles for breakfast and then shit them before lunch." As if on cue, the dog smiled, looking as evil as its owner doing so. "He just left quarantine and let me tell you, being stuck in a metal cage for a week made him rightfully pissed off. As such, there's nothing he'd like more right now than to tear your guts out and run with them for sport. And run you will."

The man-dog duo began to walk down the aisle, inspecting the slightly quivering recruits as they went, and Cenor felt his balls retract in pure reflex when the dog's muzzle came sniffing within inches of his crotch. He also got a close look at the Decurion, who was quite amazingly looking as fresh as if just unboxed, cheeks shaved clean, mustache neatly brushed, uniform immaculately pressed and adjusted, and felt justifiably envious.

The Draka NCO continued his inspection and introductory morning speech, pausing between sentences to stare at the recruits.

"Cesar's a great partner. He'll help me put a spine up your ass, hopefully. And if one of you monkeys tries to slack off, I'll personally tear off his balls and give them to Cesar to chew on. I will not allow you lousy subhumans to make me look incompetent ! Is that clear ?"

There was a ragged chorus of "Yes, Sir". Which only inflamed the Decurion. "In case you weren't told already, I'm not Sir, I'm _Master Hartmann_ for you ! And I believe you're just out of bed and not even tired yet, so no shortening it to just _Master_ yet !"

This time, the "Yes, Master Hartmann" were louder and more coordinated, and the Decurion stepped forward, then turned on his heel to stare at a single recruit squarely. As it happened, it was one of the handful women among the company, an athletic-looking brunette with short neck-length hair. She straightened under Hartmann's glare and returned his stare defiantly, an attitude that got him to chuckle with amusement.

"Trying to impress the boys, hmmm ? Gotta show them what a _gurrl_ can do ?" She didn't answer verbally, but the slight narrowing of her eyes and the subtle contraction of her jaw was a dead give-away to the observant Draka instructor. "Good spirit. Aggressivity's a key trait for a soldier. But it's not enough. Right now" his look turned contemptuous "I see a pair of walking boobies with an inferiority complex and the need to show off to Poppa and Momma and friends. Right now, I'm not sure you're even fit to suck my cock." The brown eyes blazed under the insult.

"Recruit Sorinna, you're allowed to answer."

The female aspiring soldier replied between her teeth.

"I'll prove what I can do, Master Hartmann" Her jaws were tense.

"If you're talking about sucking my dick, then we'll see in the evening, if you're not too exhausted by the first day of training" The mocking comment drew a few muffled snickers around, which were sharply cut off by Cesar's prickling his ears and growling menacingly at the closest offender. The object of the mockery was reddening angrily though, and Hartmann addressed her again, his tone devoid of any malice this time, only with an overtone of genuine curiosity.

"So you really believe you have what it takes to become an infantry soldier, recruit ?"

"I want to fight, Master Hartmann. I can perform as well as any male, and the Navy doesn't have a problem with female crews" the last words were almost snarled, but their recipient only welcomed them with a short laugh. At least that was what it seemed.

Cesar, with the benefit of a lifetime spent at the side of his master, knew better and waited obediently. He wasn't disappointed, as always when guessing his master's reaction.

There was a flash of movement and Sorinna doubled over in pain, gasping loudly for breath. Hartmann's punch wasn't simulated, although he didn't put his full power behind it. And then he was standing in the same unworried, dominating stance again as if he had never moved at all. He listened to the woman's half-choking sounds for a short moment, then spoke again with an encompassing glance over the rest of the recruits.

"If you think that being able to press buttons and stare at a holo in a nice cozy air-conditioned ship bridge is what this is all about, then think again. Fighting as an infantryman requires technical skill, and guts, and the ability to withstand pain, and exhaustion, a level of pure physical and mental resilience you're all light-years from possessing. And the requirements are the same regardless of sex. The enemy doesn't care if you're a boy or girl - the only difference it makes is the number of holes he's going to rape afterwards. If you are still alive. And maybe even if you're not"

He walked a smirking glance over the parallel lines of standing men, some showing sickened expressions at his crude depiction. Cesar, on the contrary, was beaming happily and looking up at his master with adoring eyes, wagging his short tail stump.

"Is that clear enough ?"

"YES, MASTER HARTMANN !"

"Good. And now I want you all outside and in running gear, five minutes from now ! MOVE !"

At the end of the five minutes, the company was indeed standing on the gravel of the parade ground, all 56 men and 4 women of it, clad in their Tollan-issue running shoes and thermoregulating fabric short and tank top. The tight-fitting garments were adapted from a successful range of civilian outdoor clothing, only blue-grey and emblazoned with the abbreviated acronym of the newly expanding Imperial Tollan Army, which had long vegetated under the shadow of its larger and more prestigious sister service, to the point of usually being assimilated to the Imperial Navy's Ground Force.

The sixty recruits were arrayed in three ranks. This had not seemed too difficult, as every young Tollan schoolkid was used to that kind of rank-dressing. And the lack of delay in doing so had pleased the Decurion, although he wasn't showing it. His charges were on the other hand openly gawking at his express transformation, for in the short time between his exiting the dormitory and the first recruit following his steps in running gear, the Draka had magically shed his tan uniform and donned his own running equipment.

His was showing a contrast with the sleek-looking Tollan-issue gear. Laced black leather boots, buttons and zips, versus shiny silver second-skin shoes and magnetic seams. The only concession to modernity, it seemed, was the touchpad in a clear protective sleeve attached to his left biceps.

"All right, monkeys. Since you managed to find the way out of your cage in the alloted time, we'll cut the delay down to three minutes tomorrow. But tomorrow's another day. This morning, we'll start with a little warm-up. As you can see" he gestured towads the surroundings "we're right in the middle of nowhere, nature everywhere. We've got hills, rivers and streams, grasslands and forest, and no pesky civilians for a hundred kils around the facility. Ain't that just wonderful ?"

"Yes, Master Hartmann !"

"Did you pussies fall asleep while I was speaking or what ?"

"NO, MASTER HARTMANN ! IT'S WONDERFUL, MASTER HARTMANN !"

"That's more like it !" he nodded vigorously. "Now, the path we'll take has been helpfully indicated by marker signs like those" his finger extended towards a wooden arrow just visible beyond the wrought-iron gates, not too far from the public aircar landing pad. There was a grassy footpath leading into the countryside and the low forested hills a few kilometers to the East of the enclave. Cenor remembered seeing that path the previous day, but the sign had not been there. He wondered what was written on it. He couldn't read it from there. And the Decurion's voice pulled him out of his musing.

"We'll take the small loop and come back through the North gate. Real easy. I don't expect anyone to lag behind - else Cesar will make sure to bite his sorry ass. He enjoys playing shepherd dog that way. Understood ?"

"YES MASTER HARTMANN !" If any of the recruits was apprehensive, they weren't showing it.

"All right ! Now move, monkeys !"

It was ten minutes before Decurion Hartmann got the first hint that something was very wrong. He was running a good pace with the gaggle of Tollans following and Cesar tailing them, nothing exerting, but the collective breathing behind wasn't even becoming ragged. They were following his stride without apparent difficulty. Oh well, he reasoned, maybe those ferals really took care of themselves after all. So he increased the rate.

The tree-planted hills were looming forward, the sun was now clear over the horizon and its rays were falling obliquely, casting long shadows on the ground. The air was clear and pure, and crisp enough to pleasantly cool the skin, with a sweet scent of dewy grass. Hartmann breathed deeply and regularly, savoring the moment. This was one pleasant world, if it weren't for the lack of serfs it would be perfect. The local staff was polite and efficient enough, but he had to treat them as more or less equals and that still felt too weird. It helped that many natives showed something very akin to awe whenever anything Draka was involved. The thought made him chuckle. As the Draka community on Nautona had begun to realize, there was no shortage of willing pussy - or dick, as affiliations went.

Thirty minutes into the march and the Tollans were not showing a significant strain. Now there was definitely something wrong. The group was heading up a hill on a zig-zagging dirt trail and while the recruits were now breathing louder, and stretching formation as some showed more stamina than others, it was still nowhere close to the misery Hartmann had expected from a fresh bunch of civilian ferals. And he had done his homework - neither their ordinary human physiology nor their Tollan rearing should have prepared them so well.

He slowed down, gesturing at them to keep going, and observed the passing recruits carefully, trying to discern the source of the problem, drawing from his professional knowledge of kinesthetics to dissect the way they were moving. And the realization made him angry with himself. He should have thought about it !

He sped up to the head of the column and there bellowed a "RECRUITS, HALT !" that brought them all to a stop. He watched them gather, not even trying hard to catch their breath. A sweet-looking smile crept on his lips and the recruits suddenly realized something was wrong. _That_ smile, they'd began to learn, was a Bad Omen.

Walking closer to the nearest Tollan, the Decurion addressed the young man, head slightly cocked and hands on his hips.

"Tell me, monkey… why don't I have that running gear of yours ? It seems awfully nice." He pointed down. "Those shiny shoes especially."

The recruit looked down at his feet, then at Hartmann's leather boots.

"I don't know, Master Hartmann. You ought to get some, though, they're designed to recycle three-quarters of the wearer's energy when running ! It makes it so much easier !" He answered happily, pleased to explain something to the foreign soldier and perhaps flout superior Tollan engineering. The Draka nodded genially, as if to confirm this interpretation. Cenor watched. Unlike his comrade, he had a bad feeling about it.

"And those garments, they seem rather helpful as well, in addition to the aesthetics, no ?"

"Yes, Master Hartmann" the other boy nodded vigorously, uncognizant of the danger. "They regulate temperature and evacuate sweat, and the fabric also contains nano-compounds that help our muscles clear out toxins !"

"I see" the Decurion replied softly. "This is all very helpful, obviously."

His smile turned sinister and his next command came in a flat, cold and very frightening voice, just loud enough for every recruit to hear.

"All of you, remove your shoes and take off your clothes. Now."

There was not a word of protest under the Draka's murderous glare. Only the faint sounds of sixty recruits stripping down in the middle of a forest, then leaving the discarded gear in a heap on the side of the path. The four females were drawing their fair share of attention, though, and Hartmann decided to cut off any nascent friskiness, not so much out of consideration for the blushing girls than wanting to make everyone miserable.

"And now, back to running, monkey-shits ! No more cheating !"

Fourty-five minutes later, a satisfied-looking Decurion led his nude, panting, and definitely sweating charges back into the camp, now appropriately sick and suffering and putting their abused feet gingerly down at every step. The few stragglers were harried forward by Cesar's menacing fangs.

Cohortarch Olufsen was out on the steps of his office-cum-accomodation, sipping a steaming cup of Tollan coffee and thanking whichever old Goa'uld had transplanted the first humans in this corner of the galaxy and brought the caffeine-laden plant along. He watched his Citizen subordinate lead the recruits to the sanitary block, where they disappeared one by one for the morning shit and (collective) shower.

A grin formed on the senior Draka's lips.

_Ho ho, Hartmann found out about the magic Tollan wondershoes._


	3. Chapter 3

_At least it wasn't the gravel, _Cenor thought with mild relief. The trimmed grass was a lot easier on the recruits' palms and feet, especially feet as those were sore as hell from the barefoot run Hartmann had insisted on. A few men were actually sporting repair bandages on skin cuts.

As tough as it seemed, there was a sense of vitality to be found in the simple physical exertion. Of course, the morning run was far from the extent of the Decurion's program. He had actually timed the shower step by step. Water. Soap. Rinse. Dry. Watching them try to conciliate the slightly frantic race to cleanliness with the preservation of a semblance of modesty, and failing. There was a logic to that, he knew, but it didn't make it any easier to lather himself right next to a young woman who was altogether fit and attractive and lathering herself as well. He had thought of Natylis to fight the burgeoning lust. It had made it even worse. He'd been of the verge of panic, trying to press his body against the tiled wall to conceal a growing hard-on, when the ever helpful Decurion made a passing remark for the benefit of every male trainee, having accurately guessed their predicament.

"Think about solving equations, boys ! It'll save you from getting a kick in the nuts by those ladies !"

The "lady" next to Cenor had then glanced aside and noticed the very thing he was trying to hide.

"S-sorry, I didn't mean to - I have a fiancee already, I-" he managed to babble out, red-faced. She didn't let him finish.

"Then I'll finger her cunt after I've finished spanking your ass, prick !" she snarled very unlady-like. "And I'm not into swinging meat if you see what I mean !" she hissed just loud enough for him.

_Oh fine. She's a aggressive rugmuncher, I guess that figures. Now those equations…_ He had managed to shape himself down by the time he was rinsing down the soap. Furtive glances had told him he wasn't alone anyway in needing a mental diversion.

Some managed better than others, though.

"Recruit Garbom !" Hartmann barked. "Is that what you call standing to attention ?" Fifty-nine pairs of eyes swung toward the target of the outburst. Garbom, a tall and somewhat lanky dark-haired lad, was flushed a vivid shade of red, and slumping unconsciously, as if trying to make his long frame less noticeable. His hands were also trying to cover, albeit imperfectly, a stubborn state of erection that doggedly resisted the algebra therapy. Close-by and keeping as far as she could, Sorinna was glaring rather angrily. The rest of the boys were torn between muted snickers and commiseration, pretending to ignore the whole thing.

"CESAR ! IN HERE !"

Whatever Hartmann's four-legged minion might have been doing outside, he heard and answered his master's call. The tall Dobermann's claws patted the floor tiling as they brought his black bulk to the Decurion's side, and he sat there, tongue lolling and alternating between threatening stares at the wet bodies and inquisitive glances at his master.

The whole situation was feeling dirty to Cenor's civilized mind. Just what would that perverted sadist invent now ?

Hartmann pointed. "Cesar ! Sausage !"

Garbom's eyes went wide with horror as the beast leapt in his direction and jumped at him, forepaws extended as if to bowl him down. The young man raised his own arms in reflex and took a step back as the closest recruits scattered away to a safer distance. The dog's mass made him stagger as it pushed on his chest, barking with vicious enthusiasm. He struggled against the animal to push it away and keep it from threatening his precious physical integrity, but the damn thing was _strong_ and seemed to enjoy the wrestle, forcing Garbom to retreat several steps, arms flailing against the offending paws. Eventually, Hartmann's voice rose again.

"Cesar ! Back !"

Instantly, the beast ceased its relentless assault, turned around and trotted back to the Draka's side, stopping mid-way to shake itself vigorously, spraying water from its fur. And the panting Tollan boy looked down to find his penis still intact, if limp and shriveled up.

"Listen, monkeys !" Hartmann's frown swept the wet crowd "There's nothing wrong in a healthy fucking instinct, and I personally don't care if you fuck each other like rabbits in the barracks, but here's the catch !" He paused, his sweeping gaze lingering over the females "you're going to train together and - Loki help me - maybe fight together in a distant future ! And you will do so as a unit. Fraternization can be a useful motivation to fight hard and protect your buddies, at least that's what the Citizen Force noticed back home. But !" The next sentence was hammered one group of words at a time. "You will Learn to keep Those worms Dangling between your legs Under control The rest of the time !"

Another glare. "You will learn to deal with promiscuity, because when it's time to fight you'll find out that not even your fiancee or regular fuckbuddy knows you with as much intimacy as your fellow squadmate !" Sideway glances met the last statement, the Tollans trying to wrap their mind around the notion that, maybe, that dumb-looking perv close-by might become as close as wife or husband and even more, trusted to protect their very own life.

"So you monkey-boys will make sure that Mister Worm down there doesn't forget elementary politeness. And you monkey-girls will learn not to feel violated if you find a dangling cock next to you in the shower ! Is that clear enough ?"

"YES MASTER HARTMANN !"

The Decurion glared at them for a couple seconds to emphasize it.

"Good. Now dry up and then head out for morning chow. I want you all fed and assembled on the parade ground in twenty minutes. Recruit Cenor, you're lead. Don't fuck up or I'll have to skin your ass."

Cenor swallowed a lump. "Yes, Master Hartmann !"

He managed to lead the flock in good order to the chowhall, another long wooden shed attached to the base kitchen. Angry glares from the sixty recruits managed to convey a "one comment or misplaced stare and we'll boil you alive in your own kitchen" message to the mess crew, who then carefully ensured their eyes always pointed higher than waist-level. And higher still when the four females were concerned.

The meal was simple, reasonably decent-tasting, and energetic enough to fuel what would end up as the most exhausting half-day in Cenor's life. Until the next one, that is.

And the company was back on parade square in the prescribed delay. Cenor felt a small pride in the achievement.

And Hartmann came back, accurate to the second and wearing his day uniform again, having apparently showered and eaten in the same time. He gave a brief inspection of the ranks, nodded to Cenor and then led them all to the grass field beyond the barracks. A variety of spartan-looking tubular frames were laying around, too. Overhead beams. Horizontal scales. Obstacles of various forms, some constructed of rough unpainted wood. Those weren't for immediate use though.

"All right monkeys ! Space out and drop down on your hands and feet, body and arms straight extended !"

He waited a couple seconds as the sixty Tollans dropped down into the canonical push-up position. He had to rectify a few, using astutely placed kicks, until he was satisfied with the starting configuration.

"And One !" There was a chorus of groans as the trainees lowered themselves on their arms, then pushed up, back to the starting position. Their synchronisation wasn't the best, and it got worse "And Two !"

"And Three !"

"Freya's cunt, goddamn limp-wristed cocksucking cheese-smelling scrotum-pubes !"

Predictably, Hartmann's verbal abuse began on the fifteenth repetition, as the already-imperfect collective motion broke apart, some getting ahead, others failing to follow the rhythm, and many shifting to unsanctioned postures to relieve the tension in their muscles.

"Hold !"

The Decurion strode from one offending recruit to the other, correcting their positions with vigorous heel stomps, unheeding of the groans, cries and plain yells.

"Who gave me such a turdheap of rotten maggot-shit to whip into chocolate mousse ? Which fucking inbred mythical divinity have I offended in my past life to get this ?" The rant continued, drawing from the vast library of abusive language accumulated by generation upon generation of Janissary Drill Instructors, mixing original Draka Anglic expression with rough-sounding literal translations into Tollan and Standard Goa'uld. Not all of it was understood by the recruits, but the gist of it was. If the kicks and stomps and spitting downs weren't clear enough.

"And Sixteenth !" Groans and moans.

Hartmann bent down next to a boy. "Lower !" The recruit inched his chest downward. "Lower, dammit ! The tip of your cock is positively stratospheric above ground level ! Either you've got a tiny one or you're a slacker !" Strained chuckles staccatoed around as the offender found the strength to make his glans kiss the grass.

"That's more like it !" Hartmann straightened up, and swept the assembly of nude sweaty backs and clamped buttocks with a satisfied eye. "I want those cocks to touch the ground at every repetition ! And don't think of cheating !" His gaze fell on Sorinna. "And you she-apes give some love to Mother Earth with those tits !"

In the end, the torture stopped at fifty. A pitiful number in the Decurion's disgusted opinion, as he made clear in another abusive tirade, right before granting a three minutes rest before the follow-up fun.

Leg crunches. Pull-ups on the overhead beams. Endless series punctuated by more push-ups, especially for those unlucky sould who managed to offend Hartmann's professional sensitivity. A few recruits puked on themselves, getting disgusted angry comments from those collateral victims who caught explosively-dispersed vomit droplets as an unwelcome refreshment.

There were runs, short sprints, climbs over obstacles. The rare minutes of relief were entirely not enough. As the sun neared its zenith, though, their tormenter judged it was enough for the time being. Cenor was feeling his heart beating against his ribcage as if trying to punch out and escape. Various muscles seemed to have gone absent without leave. At least the regular drinking had prevented more painful cramps. Hartmann had explained how the slightly metallic-tasting liquid contained all sorts of beneficial compounds to help their bodies cope with the level of physical exertion.

Ten more minutes were spent on the grass, stretching arms and legs and massaging each other's knotted muscles under the Decurion's direction. The physical contact still felt strange and embarrassing. Finding one's hands close to another guy's balls wasn't something most Tollans were used to. But the sheer pain and fatigue made the comfort-giving touch less awkward. In effect, they were too fucked up to care much, Cenor snickered to himself.

Then it was midday lunch, and the still naked and somewhat rank-smelling recruits ate ravenously. After that and much to their surprise, Decurion Hartmann got them to lay on thin mats over the grass, and led them through the first biofeedback lesson. It was more like a controlled, half-awake nap. Amazingly, they got out of the hour-long session refreshed mentally and physically, at least enough to perform an afternoon march through the hills. On the way, they noticed that the pile of discarded clothing had been removed.

More physical exercise in the compound. Weight training to build muscle mass. More stretching.

Evening took every recruit by surprise in their dazed state. Another shower, this time unsupervised, and all made a point to behave, Garbom included. Dinner, to refill their energy reserves and bring proteins.

After which Hartmann took them to the dorm. He didn't need to warn them about not wasting time keeping awake. All of them fell asleep as soon as they laid on their bed.

"So. How was that first day ?" Olufsen's question was expected. Hartmann took a sip of the offered Tollan brandy first, sprawled over a deep-cushioned leather seat. There wasn't much formality off-duty between Citizens belonging to the same unit.

"Pah. Never saw such a group of lazy-ass chimps. Too used to comfort, I guess, not like our Janissaries, back in the time." The Decurion's eyes lost focus, fixed toward an unremarkable spot on the wall. "Good shit, this Tollan rotgut."

"Well, what can you expect. Janissaries came from a different kind of stock. Though, at least thos Tollies are healthy and well-fed. That's a decent starting point, we don't have to worry about nutrition deficiencies, sickness and all that."

"True."

"Think we'll end up with something that can fight ?"

"Oh, sure. Against the Jaffas, at least. We'll get something, even if not all those kids make it through. I don't think they realize just what they signed for, yet."

"Hmm." The Cohortarch swirled a mouthful of liquor before swallowing silently. "Ole boy Schrakenberg's playing a queer game at that, y'know."

Hartmann's eyes refocused and met his fellow Citizen's.

"Interesting times, eh ?"


	4. Chapter 4

_Comments welcome. _

Second day followed the same template. It also got both worse and better. Worse because the first day's strenuous activity caught up despite every alleviating measure. Muscles felt like ropes of fire and cramps reared their ugly heads, only to be squashed by the judicious use of stretching exercises.

And better because logistics had come up with training wear that complied with the Drakas' specifications, which boiled down to "no technological trickery". A pair of shorts, a tank top, and plain, ordinary simili-leather and fabric running shoes. At least the socks and underwear were of the anti-chafing type, which wasn't too much to ask. And it left nudity to the showers.

Also, Hartmann added ten repetitions to every exercise series. Ten more push-ups, ten more leg crunches, ten more everything. And somehow all managed to complete those, albeit with much effort, screams, and motivational verbal abuse.

The third day introduced a variation after breakfast. Instead of repetitions on the grass field, the company was led at a leisurely jogging pace, to the stretch of river flowing North of the camp. It wasn't a large waterway, merely the collected streams from the eastern hills, rather fresher than comfortable on the edge of chilly. There was a length of gently sloping grass shore, with the most noticeable feature being a drawn-up bright orange canoe, and Hartmann made them strip again before explaining.

"You all learned to swim, so none of you will hopefully drown on me." He gestured around at the surroundings. Out west and east the river was disappearing around gentle bends, lined by raised earth banks that were a little too steep for easy climbing and shaded by regularly planted trees. A long time ago, this area had been given to farmlands and the river had been gently canalized, hence the regular-looking embankments. Although the farms had disappeared since and the regions more or less allowed to return to nature, the river was still loosely looked after.

"You maggot-pubes probably don't care, but I love boating." the Decurion went on. "So I have decided to take a little paddling trip up the river." Recruits groaned as loud as they dared. Up meant against the current. It wasn't too quick out there, but the outcome was clear. "Since I can't really leave you alone to dick around on camp, I'm bringing you along." He made a mockingly contrite face. "Alas, there's only one canoe…" And finished with his trademark sadistic grin. "So you'll swim along ! And if one of you tries to slack off by drowning conveniently, Cesar will fish him out by the balls too." The Doberman barked once and got a vigorous stroke on the head. "That's a good dog !"

There were isolated snorts from the rear ranks of recruits. Hartmann pretended not to hear them. "One last thing ! When we land again, the last of you monkeys to get out will be on shit detail for the remainder of the week ! NOW GET IN THE WATER !"

Sixty bodies ran into the water and about the same number of yelps cried out when the temperature difference registered. And more when some of the recruits began to splash water around both to warm up and to whip up less enthusiastic comrades. Soon the scene dissolved into a water fight with every Tollan splashing and spraying at his neighbours, then angered female exclamations as a couple of the girls were lifted out of the water on enterprising male shoulders, the owners of those showing manic grins between flailing thighs.

Hartmann chuckled quietly as he dragged the small hard plastic boat down in the stream, followed by his animal minion. His charges were taking the situation with enthusiasm. But better not they waste all their energy fooling around.

"Goddamit !" he bellowed, once sat on the canoe's dug-out seat, paddle in hand. His powerful voice brought the agitation to a halt, and sixty dripping wet heads turned to face him. "This isn't a day at _Fun Wet Adventure Park !_ Now form up on me and swim like the slimy mudworms you are !" He emphasized the command with a good whack on the nearest Tollan head for extra motivation and began to leisurely paddle away, keeping a corner of an eye on the recruits to make sure they followed. The joyous din subsided then as the company began to swim after him, the only sounds remaining those of vigorous breathing snorts and limbs flailing through water. Good thing the Empire had mandatory swimming classes at school. The boys and girls were following his moderate pace. Paddle slowly a half minute, stop and drift, wait for them to catch up. Repeat. They made a hundred meters like that, Cesar barking from time to time at the rear of the little boat whenever he deemed one of the swimmers to be slacking, which happened more frequently the next fifteen minutes. On the last segment, fatigue was beginning to show among the less regular practitioners, and a dozen recruits were trailing behind gasping for air between strokes that were becoming more and more irregular.

"Almost there ! Just a little more ! Don't falter now !"

Hartmann's shouted encouragements seemed to have an effect. The perspective of arriving - somewhere, soon - gave new strength to everyone, and they slowly turned another gentle bend to discover another grassy beach ahead. With a landed utility aircar upslope and a pair of Army gophers chatting idly under the shade, with neat folded piles of clothing beyond and something else that spurred the swimming Tollan youth forward. A rank of gleaming silver thermo-regulating containers. Dry clothes and hot drinks seemed like heaven right then.

Hartmann reached the shore first, disembarked and pulled the boat up as Cesar watched over the recruits arriving next in one and twos, panting and bedraggled. It took five good minutes for the last one to drag himself up, sputtering water and cursing at the perspective of cleaning the bathrooms for the next three days. The steaming goblet of coffee momentarily quelled his frustration. Nothing like adversity to make one appreciate small things. Even the four women weren't paying attention to the Army flunkies ogling their wet and glistening bodies.

The Decurion let his charges blow off steam, catch their breath and warm up, cradling his own coffee mug and observing them with a professional eye. There were already group dynamics at work among the recruits, clusters gravitating around a nascent leader or simply circles of like-minded individuals coagulating. The company was beginning to acquire an identity. He would use that, later.

Eventually he clapped his hands loudly, the signal for everyone to shut up, line up and listen.

"I'm glad none of you apes drowned. I hate paperwork !" He glared, made an offended face. "But I'm pissed off at your performance, or should I say : lack of performance ! Rats swim better than you ! If your life was on the line, you'd be dead now !"

He paused a second, gauging their reaction. Most were listening rather passively. A few were fidgeting and watching their toes. Some were trying not to glare indignantly. Those were the ones with the most potential.

"They told me to make soldiers out of you ! Well I'm fucked ! FUCKED ! I'd have more chance to achieve that goal with a heap of shit !" He started to pace in front of the recruits.

"But that's my curse in life ! Faced with the impossible and finding a way to do it ! Like taking a bunch of wimpy schoolkids like you and turn them into something remotely fit to be called soldier !" In fact, it was harder than training Janissaries. Those were after all either plantation lads, tough and used to physical work, or conquered soldiers who only needed to be whipped back into shape and drilled to obey their new masters.

He caught sniggers from the two Tollan Army pukes and shot them a bloodcurdling glare. Wearing a uniform didn't make them soldiers, merely glorified drivers. They had no basis to deride his charges and his expression made it clear enough that they shut up abruptly and took a step back before retreating to the aircar where they pretended to look busy checking the craft's fenders and cleaning imaginary dirt spots.

Switching back to the lines of recruits, Hartmann stared at them, arms akimbo.

"Break's finished ! Time to haul it back to camp. Just follow the path, you can't get lost. I want to see all of you at the gate in fifteen minutes. MOVE !" There was no need to outline the consequences of getting lost or failing to show up in time, he decided.

He watched them run off, and once they were all out of immediate sight strode up to the waiting aircar. The drivers scurried into the forward compartment, not really wanting to stay any closer to him as necessary, a reaction that brought a satisfied smirk to the object of their apprehension. _Serf material, those two_, he decided.

There was a nifty aspect of the Tollans' ancient Earth heritage. Their week counted seven days, although the rest of the calendar didn't coincide perfectly, not unsurprisingly given their star system's different configuration. So with the seventh and last day of the first week came a surprise for the sore and tired recruits. Sore and tired, but nevertheless feeling fitter than ever before, the flood of hormones from physical exertion accumulating in their system in a process that was very familiar to their Draka mentors.

Hartmann had put them to their paces all week and pushed them beyond what they thought themselves capable of. They were beginning to shape up and exsude a nice healthy glow, which was also becoming fairly distracting in the four female ones. The little, and fairly innocuous cases of grab-ass and playful verbal sparring between them and their male counterparts were proof enough than they all needed to blow off steam in order to keep things civilized inside the company.

Therefore, the recruits fully experienced the previously unfathomed bliss afforded by a late morning wake-up call on their first sunday on base. There was a comparatively leisurely physical warm-up and exercise session, followed by the same simple and whole mid-day lunch. The early-afternoon biofeedback training was devoted to breathing control, with passing (and apparently unrelated) mentions of how these techniques could be put to good use in other contexts than combat.

Cohortarch Olufsen himself chimed in afterwards, with a short speech about the importance of self-control and the related need to care for one's body needs.

The recruits eventually found out why.

It was mid-afternoon when a small Navy transport shuttle landed on the parade square, kicking up small clouds of dust as its skids disturbed the gravel. The training company was neatly aligned in clean fresh clothing, having showerd just before, and they all expected some important brass types to climb down the open hatch to inspect them, somehow. It made sense, didn't it ? Although why a cargo transport and not a VIP one…

There was a collective gasp of goggle-eyed surprise when, instead of the expected uniformed and medalled officials, a pair of obviously civilian young women appeared, followed by more. Two dozens, in fact. All ranging from fair-skinned to caramel tones, young, pretty if not beautiful, and clad in garments that didn't appear to have modesty as a goal.

Somehow, the four older men and women who accompanied them, clad in tan Draka uniforms, managed to bring a semblance of normalcy to the preposterous scene. They were clearly herding the… girls, and were greeted with warm familiarity by the two resident Draka officers under bemused Tollan stares.

As the newcomers line up in front of the standing recruits, keeping eyes demurely - no, submissively down and making no attempt at hiding their choice bits, Decurion Hartmann chose to relieve the general puzzlement.

"All right, boys and girls" he addressed the recruits, booming voice and ramrod back as the other Drakas watched with amusement, "you've had a tough week. And the next one will be tougher, and the next likewise until I'm satisfied that yes, you may begin training as _soldiers._ If you think the past days were hard, _think again_."

He could tell they were only half-listening, their eyes riveted on the female formation facing them. "But right NOW" he barked, getting their full attention again, at least for a few seconds "it's time for another part of your basic training. One that's just as essential despite any pretense at the contrary. Yes, I'm talking about fucking. Not only it's a great thing to look forward to after the fight, it also keeps your mind focused the rest of the time."

He grinned. "So that you girls" he looked at the four female recruits in turn "don't have to shoulder the weight of those horny cocks. Although you're free to participate if you so wish. It's your choice, no pressure. After all, it's recreation time !"

A staggered cheer went up after the Decurion's last words. The male recruits were realizing that yes, they weren't dreaming and those pretty girls in front of them were here to satisfy the urges that had only grown stronger in the week with no real possibility of release. But some faces weren't showing the same level of elation. A few were frozen in shock, embarrassment, hesitation.

"Questions ?"

A hand rose at Hartmann's verbal prompt.

"Speak, recruit !"

"Master Hartmann, err… It's -, err, who are they ?"

_The million aurics question_, the officers thought in unison. Faced with the truth - or as close to the whole truth as manageable - how would those Tollans react ?

The Decurion took a breath, feeling the expectant stares upon himself.

"These girls were Goa'uld worshippers. We captured them in the Atheros diversionary attack. Now here they are, all clean and pretty and bug-free for your pleasure."

"They're... prisoners of war ?" the same young man sought again and Hartmann nodded.

"Exactly. They were captured, along with their families. Those are the rules of warfare. Woe to the vanquished ! You know this rule well, don't you all ?"

This question was rhetorical indeed. All of them, especially the natives of Nautona, were intimately familiar with it. The more so when they had been on the receiving end before.

And the psychological turmoil was expected by the observing Drakas. Many of the trainees were thinking back to their own captivity, or the testimonials of others, and were torn between two reactions. Pity for the captive girls on one side. Lust, and desire to get even, to get back indirectly at those who had aggressed their people or supported that aggression, on the other. And above all, the call of natural instincts, grown stronger by the Draka-designed training regimen.

Eventually nods and ayes answered Hartmann's question and he allowed himself a satisfied smirk. Yes, the pieces were coming together.

"Good. I don't suppose you apes need the fucking manual, so get the best of your time until evening meal. Dismissed !"

Arms crossed, he watched the men crowd around the tattooed girls and pull them willy-nilly toward the dormitory. Rather willy, in fact. These serfs were trained and meek, all implanted with subdermal locators. None would try to escape. And the Tollan men seemed all too eager to use them. A short laugh escaped the Draka's lips. If only the Damnyanks saw that. Their silly prattle about universal human rights and values, so much bullshit they took for granted, ignoring the true nature of human mind. Conquer or be conquer, dominate or be dominated, fuck or be fucked. This was the universal truth. At least these Imperials didn't seem to have all that crud in their eyes.

Still, some were dragging behind, clearly hesitating or uneasy, hemming and hawing and looking at him sideways as if they had unresolved questions. He took a few strides toward them.

"Anything wrong ? Or are you not into women ?"

They shook their heads and the informal leader answered.

"Master Hartmann, we all have fiancees or girlfriends home. We're… not sure about all this."

The Decurion gave them an appraising glance, then nodded.

"I see." He stared at Cenor in the eye, but almost softly. "Tell me. What's your fiancee's name ?"

"Natylis… Master."

"And why, tell me do you love Natylis ?"

Cenor thought for a moment.

"I… I mean, I love everything about her. I always knew she was the one, my soul-mate. I'd do anything for her. I… want to protect her. I don't want to…" he stopped speaking, throat tight and voice on the edge of breaking.

To everyone's surprise, Hartmann put a hand on the young man's shoulder and squeezed.

"I know, lad. I know what you've been through. And I know why you want to be a soldier. You've got the best reason for that." He patted the shoulder again. "You want to become a soldier, and you'll learn to be one. This is part of training. Don't fret about it, it won't change your feelings for her. These girls" he pointed at the last ones entering the barracks, from where a concert of whooping and hollering was already seeping through the thin walls, "are tools. Like a rifle, or the weights we're using to build muscle. Tools. Treat them well, but in the end, they're just that. Don't get touchy-feely about it or it will detract you from your goal."

There were understanding nods. Well, he couldn't force them anyway.

As the group began to walk away, Hartmann kept his grip on Cenor, tightened it even, wrapping his arm fully around the young man's shoulder. He spoke almost to Cenor's ear, in a low, matter-of-fact tone. "Listen, you need to get past whatever trauma you had during the Goa'uld Occupation. Fuck it away, boy. Pass the pain to someone else, so to speak. Understand me ?" His eyes bored into Cenor's, close enough for the lad to smell his breath. He was pleased to see him stand his own eyes straight, forcing any apparence of weakness back. _There's some steel down there. Only have to temper it. _

A last clap on the back, and a friendly - if virile - cuff on the back of the head sent Cenor smiling towards the dormitory.

Hartmann watched him go.

_This one has potential, I think._

An hour later, the Decurion was slouching off in the recess of his personal quarters, half buried in a deep scented leather couch and scratching idly at Cesar's head. And telling himself that he ought to have appropriated one of the pleasure girls for his own use. He had needs of his own, after all.

The visiting Draka officers were still in Olufsen's office. Hartmann had known it was time to leave after a half-hour of exchanging news, gossip and small talk, before the conversation slipped over his pay grade. Not that it could be very juicy anyway with the possibility of Tollan intelligence listening. Which they had to assume as a matter of fact, always.

His own room wasn't palatial - but he'd known worse. It was clean, warm and comfortable. Good enough. Besides, there was no point getting bigger accommodation without serfs to take care of the chores. Sure, there were Tollan cleaning personnel, but… it wasn't the same.

Cesar's ears suddenly pricked up. Seconds later, someone knocked at the door. _Not a Draka._ The rapping was different.

"Come in !"

The wooden door pivoted on its old-fashioned hinges and Hartmann kept his surprise from showing on his face, sitting still, hand immobile over the dog's head.

"Recruit Sorinna." He raised an eyebrow. "What brings you here ? I thought I'd be rid of you monkeys for a little while" he ended in a gruff tone that didn't fool anyone. Not her, anyway. And right now she wasn't showing the recruit's harried apprehensiveness, or rather, she was pushing it back behind a kind of self-confidence that brought a tingling feel of expectation to Hartmann.

She snorted lightly and made a casual, dismissive little hand flutter.

"Umm. I'm not into other girls. Noira, on the other hand, is having the time of her life in there, like the boys."

He nodded. "And you…?"

She stood hands clasped behind her back, head proudly up. Almost arrogantly. Just like her breasts, now that Hartmann bothered to notice. Her reply came in a sly voice.

"I prefer men with more… experience." And the tip of her tongue humected her lips furtively. She went on before the sitting man could speak. "Remember the first day, when you told me I'd be too exhausted to give you head ? I'm not tired right now." Her confident posture slipped a little, repressed nervousness coming back to the fore now that she had figuratively shot her arrow. And if she'd been wrong about it… she'd be shoveling shit for as long as she stayed in the camp.

Her target was taken aback by the casual way she had come on to him. Part of him wanted to berate her - was she crossing the line here ? Or maybe not - they were making rules as they went here. There weren't any female janissaries. She wasn't a serf - technically, legally, practically, whatever one bothered to call it. She was a free woman, albeit not a Citizen, and under his authority.

Gears ground in his mind for several seconds. At last they clicked into place. There was a willing and attractive young woman, and he was horny as hell.

He rose up and took a step ahead to face her, then curved his right arm around her head and grabbed a handful of her hair to pull her closer in one swift stroke while his left hand came up to cover her lips. She gasped in surprise as he brought his mouth inches from hers and rasped in a low, almost hissing voice, eyes locked on hers.

"You're pretty bold to barge in and ask for a screw like I'm here to pleasure you." He tightened his grip on her mane, drawing a little yelp from her. Now, gagged and unable to breathe properly, she was staring with barely concealed fear in her eyes instead of the self-confidence she had shown before. "Tell me, are you expecting any special treatment for that ?"

She shook her head gingerly, a short chopped motion constrained by his firm handhold.

"Good then, because you won't get any. Either you'll meet the standards, or you'll fail. Is that clear ?"

She nodded in the same restricted manner, her chestnut eyes wide open and staring. He smiled, baring his teeth. A victorious, contained grin.

"So we're on the same wavelength then. Perfect."

His hand left her face and dropped to her right buttock to squeeze and knead the firm flesh ; and at the same time he brought his lips onto hers, feeling them part away to let his tongue in. She managed to let out a little moan of surrender before his kiss silenced her and she closed her eyes.


End file.
